“You’re the scrawniest, most ungrateful pig of a cat I’ve ever had the goddamn misfortune to come across, you know that?”
The cat in question stared at me with a look that could only be described as utter satisfaction. He was an orange tabby with a pale, fluffy mane that made him look like a miniature lion and a coat that had random tufts of fur sticking out at odd angles. He looked older than Methuselah, even though he was only a little over three. The spirit within the cat, however, was not young.
I shook the hand he had all but shredded, flicking droplets of blood across pristine white tiles. “I should let you starve, you ungrateful wretch of a thing.”
The cat blinked, his mismatched eyes—one amber, one blue—glinting in the shadow-filled kitchen. It wasn’t my kitchen, and it certainly wasn’t my cat. I was just here to feed the thing. Monty—my cousin and the cat’s ‘owner’—had gone to Melbourne to have the external fixation devices on his leg removed and to begin full rehabilitation. Nearly two months had passed since the soucouyant had kidnapped and basically broken him—or at least his left tibia—and between the hospital stay and his inability to move about with any sort of ease, he’d been less than pleasant to be around. Much like his cat, really.
Thankfully, the run of foul spirits and demons invading the Faelan Reservation—the only werewolf reservation in Victoria, and one of seven in Australia—had gone from a tidal wave to a trickle. We’d only had a couple of minor demons wander in seeking prey during that time, and Ashworth—the Regional Witch Association representative who now lived here, and who’d once again stepped into the vacant reservation witch position until Monty regained mobility—had little trouble dealing with them.
I dumped the rest of the tin’s contents into the cat’s bowl, then rose and did a wide detour around him, moving across to the sink so I could run water over the wound. The cat bent, took a sniff of the fish, then raised a paw and pushed the bowl away, a look a disdain on his face.
“Listen here, buddy, you may have Belle wrapped around your dangerous little paw, but she’s not here today. You eat what I give you, or you starve.”
The cat studied me for a moment, then rose and, with a flick of his fluffy tail, stalked from the room.
“Felines,” I muttered, and thanked God my familiar was not only human, but also my best friend. Generally, familiars came in the form of animals—mostly cats, like Monty’s orange nightmare—or a spirit. No one really knew why Belle had become mine, and no one had ever really cared enough to find out. I’d certainly never questioned it—why would I, when her presence in my life was the only reason I stood here today?
I turned off the tap, dried the wound, and then dragged the first aid kit out of the pantry. After spraying the three deep slashes on the top of my hand with antiseptic, I tossed the first aid kit back, then filled up the ungrateful feline’s water bowl. Thankfully, Belle was back tomorrow—she’d gone down to Melbourne to see the latest incarnation of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and had decided to stay overnight rather than do the late-night drive back to Castle Rock—so she could resume feeding duties. The wretched cat seemed to like her; or, at the very least, he didn’t go into berserker mode the minute she walked through the door. But then, aside from being a witch, Belle was both a telepath and a strong spirit talker; if the cat did decide to flex his claws and cause some damage, she could certainly return the favor. Clever spirits did not mess with her.
I grabbed my handbag from the table and slung it over my shoulder as I headed for the front door, my footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards. Other than his bed, a sofa, and the largest TV screen I’d ever seen, there was very little in the way of furniture in any of the rooms. It had all been destroyed—along with the house Monty had temporarily set up in—when the soucouyant had kidnapped him. The loss hadn’t actually fazed him all that much, simply because anything he really cared about—including his classic 1967 V8 Mustang—had been secured off-site.
As I swung the front door open and unsnibbed the wire door, the cat began to wail. But this was no ordinary caterwaul. It was a deep,